


Trade My Tomorrows

by PyroKlepto



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Demons, Flashbacks, Hell, I don't know what else to tag this, I'll update the tags as I write, M/M, Sort Of, lots of flashbacks to mick's and leonard's pasts probably, there's heavy religious undertones so warning for that, twist ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-19 08:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13701027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyroKlepto/pseuds/PyroKlepto
Summary: "If heaven's grief brings hell's reign,then I would trade all my tomorrowsfor just one yesterday..."After a year of grieving the loss of his partner, Mick Rory is about to push the limits of those endless possibilities of world-jumping and time travel. If you can travel to alternate universes, then maybe, just maybe, you can travel to the world that lies beyond death - and maybe, just maybe, you can bring someone back with you.He's willing to sacrifice anything to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this idea brewing for about a year or so, since I watched LoT 1x15 and saw what happened to Leonard. I'm aware that this is possibly the worst time to post this, since Constantine actually did appear in the show's canon recently, and people might think this is related to that. It's not. This is entirely based off my own idea from a year ago.
> 
> A few things: my knowledge is strictly based on the DCTV universe and not the comics so there may be false information/divergence from comic canon without my knowing. Please don't freak out. Also, my main knowledge is of LoT and Constantine, so if I get stuff from Arrow or The Flash wrong, please don't freak out. Let's just say that this fic is a mixture of LoT, Constantine, and my own creative licensing and leave it at that.
> 
> Finally, if you're enjoying the fic - or have criticism/suggestions - please leave a comment! Kudos are nice and all, but comments are much more likely to keep me motivated to work on this. If it hasn't been updated in a while, and you notice that and want me to continue, tell me - 'cause chances are I stopped writing it due to feeling like people didn't want to read it.
> 
> That's about it! Enjoy the first chapter. (First chapters are always roughest for me so chances are the quality will get better with time.)
> 
> Fly high!

“Why do you insist on smoking those things?”

Leonard’s nose wrinkled, his brow furrowed as he waved a nimble-fingered hand in front of his face. “The smoke gets everywhere. And you smell like cigarettes constantly. It’s like you don’t ever take a _bath._ ”

An exhale broke the few moments of silence in the night air, smoke curling in wisps through the streetlamp light above their heads. Mick shrugged his shoulders, worn leather jacket faintly creaking as locks of brown hair fell across his face. “Keeps me from wiggin’ out. Sometimes. I just like ‘em.”

“They’re disgusting.” Leonard huffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and ducking in front of Mick, shuffling a few feet upwind. “Find other ways to stay calm.”

“Why? These work often enough.” As if proving his point, Mick took a deep drag, exhaling smoke through his nose, tilting his head back to rest against the stone lamppost. “And when they don’t…” He reached into his jacket, withdrawing a lighter and flashing Leonard a grin.

The younger man rolled his eyes. “Your lungs are turning black as we speak.”

Mick’s lopsided grin didn’t fade, and he rolled the cigarette side to side in his mouth, tonguing the end of it still between his lips. “To match my soul.”

The sharp sigh expelling from Leonard’s chest showed all too clearly just what he thought of that sentiment. “You’re going to die of lung cancer long before I even go grey, I hope you know that.”

Mick’s only response was a low laugh, and another drag from the firefly-glowing cigarette resting gently between his teeth.

~ * ~

Mick was drunk when the thought occurred to him. Then again, he found himself drunk most days. And nights. And all times in between, really. He was sure he drank more beer than water nowadays, and quite honestly couldn’t be bothered by that fact. He couldn’t turn to fire to cope, not while on this time-traveling junk heap (no offence to Gideon, who occasionally wasn’t too annoying), and so, booze became the answer.

Sometimes he had company. And sometimes, he would stick around. Not because he wanted anyone around, of course, but more that he planned on drinking more beer than he wanted to carry back to his quarters. After all, Mick Rory did not need ‘company’. 

Tonight, Sara had joined him, which had been perfect, considering the thoughts running through his head at the time. 

“Birdie.”

Sara glanced over at him over her own bottle of beer, blue eyes wide open and clear. She was nowhere near tipsy, unlike Mick, who had passed tipsy and crossed the line of punch-ass drunk some time before she even showed up. “Yeah?”

“Who was that… that guy. The one who--” Mick gestured vaguely, fingers moving in spite of how disconnected his body felt from his mind, vision blurry and muscles slack. “Got your soul back or whatever.”

“John Constantine.” The answer came without much curiosity or confusion as to why the question had been asked at all. “He’s the only reason I didn’t turn into a complete monster… if I hadn’t gotten my soul back, I don’t know what would have happened.”

It wasn’t that Mick didn’t care about the words leaving Sara’s mouth - he did, even if he would never admit it - but more that he often had a one-track mind, and right now, it was hyperfocused on one thing and one thing only. “Huh. Where’d your sister or whoever find ‘im anyway?”

Sara’s brow scrunched up as she considered the question, nose wrinkling as she tipped back another sip of beer. “Oliver found him. And I dunno. He just said he called him up and asked him to come to Star City to help. He has connections probably; or knows someone who does, if I know Oliver.”

A beat of silence fell over them. Mick eventually made an affirmative noise low in his throat and swigged the rest of his drink in one go. “Huh.” He paused, staring blankly at the empty bottle now resting in front of him, stomach rumbling. Getting up, he moved toward the fabricator. “Gideon. Cheeseburger.”

Silence. Nothing appeared.

“Gideon.”

Silence and a decided lack of cheeseburgers.

“Gideon!”

Silence.

“The hell is wrong with you, you deaf fu--!”

Sara interjected quickly. “Gideon, two cheeseburgers. Please.”

Saying nothing, the AI obeyed, fabricated the food asked for. Mick grumbled under his breath, taking the two burgers and moving back to the counter, sliding one over to Sara and cradling the other in his hands.

“Thank you, Gideon.”

“You’re welcome, Captain Lance.” Faint emphasis was placed on Sara’s title and name, and Mick could practically feel invisible, nonexistent eyes piercing the back of his head with a pointed glare.

He gave a sound between a huff and a scoff, grabbing another bottle of beer from the collection on the counter. “Night, Birdie.”

“Hold on.” Sara shifted slightly, raising a hand in a gesture that told him to stop. “What’s wrong?”

Mick frowned, staring down at her. “Nothin’.” He moved to leave again.

She didn’t touch him to halt his movements, but she did push for answers all the same. “Not nothing. You don’t just wake up in the middle of the night, come down here to drink yourself into the floor, and get _that_ impatient with Gideon unless something is wrong, Mick. Did you have a nightmare or something? It’s okay, you know, after everything you--”

_“Why do you insist on smoking those things?”_

Mick didn’t look back at her. “Nope. Not a nightmare. Just wanted a drink. Night, Birdie.” Before she could press further, he made his exit and turned down the hall toward his quarters. And if anyone caught the scent of cigarette smoke drifting from beneath the doors of his room, they put it out of their minds and said nothing.

~*~

The next morning started bright and early, or as bright and early as a morning on a timeship that transcended time as one knows it could start. In reality, as Ray found out from Gideon, it was technically noon. But as they were currently in the temporal zone, that meant nothing.

Sara stood on the bridge, doing the morning head-count. Which was always an adventure, considering at any given time, at least three members of the crew would blatantly ignore the announcements calling them in for a meeting. Today, however, everyone was in attendance. Jax, Ray, Stein, Nate, Amaya… 

Wait.

Nate spoke before Sara could. “I get that the ship’s resident drunk guy is probably hungover, but I thought you said this was an important non-negotiable meeting, Sara?”

She flashed him an irritated look. “Gideon, could you repeat the announcement?”

“That would be futile, Captain.”

A brief pause followed the words before Sara frowned and glanced up. “Why?”

“Mr. Rory is no longer aboard the ship.”

Several of the crewmembers began to talk at once, asking where he had gone, rolling their eyes and proclaiming just how typical this was, and one muttering that perhaps Mr. Rory had decided to sell them out - again.

Sara held up a hand, not lowering it until everyone took the hint and quieted down, muttering amongst themselves in varying degrees of confusion and irritation. “Where is he then, Gideon?”

“He took the jumpship last night.”

“Do you know where he was going?” Jax cut in, walking around the bridge to peer at the screen and toy with a few buttons. “There should be tracking…” 

“The coordinates he entered show that he was headed to Star City, 2015,” Gideon reported. “As for the tracking device, he deactivated it before takeoff. Unless he reactivates it, I am afraid I have no way to pinpoint his next location.”

Sara exhaled slowly, kneading at the bridge of her nose with two fingers for a few moments before moving to stand beside Jax at the console. “Set a course for Star City, 2015, Gideon.”

“Uh, Sara?” Nate joined her at her other side, touching her shoulder briefly. “I hate to interrupt your… rescue mission… but you said the anachronism in Oregon is kinda top priority now. Time sensitive, getting bigger with every day that passes, you know, that thing.”

She flashed him an annoyed look, and he took a few steps back, making sure there was ample distance between him and the captain who was potentially close to anger. “Mick’s a big boy, he can handle himself while we deal with the anachronism. We can find him later.” The words ended on an uptick, as though he wanted to ask permission - but not enough to actually speak in a question.

“Mr. Heywood is correct.” Gideon spoke again. “The anachronism has gone from a level two to a level five in the span of the last day and will only continue to grow if left unchecked.”

A sigh left Sara’s lips. “Fine. Stay on-course. But we go to find Mick immediately after this is taken care of.” She turned slowly, looking at each member of the crew in turn. “Understood?”

Faint murmurs of agreement reached her ears, and she returned her attention to the console before her.

She could only hope her suspicions of the pyro’s whereabouts were not correct.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mick gets valuable information and the Legends come face to face with an angry Celtic queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update; I've been busy as hell lately, what with getting ready to move out of my parents' house and into my first apartment, dealing with a breaking computer, trying to find a second job, struggling with mental illness, you know the drill. So this chapter might not be as good as the last one, as I was pretty tired writing it, but I tried. 
> 
> A few notes: I do not watch Arrow and never have, so I apologise for any inaccuracies there. I looked on Wiki in an attempt to get things right but I'm not sure I did. And as much as I love the other characters, Mick and Len are the ones whose voices I'm best at, so if any of the other characters don't sound totally accurate, I'm sorry; I'm trying my best. As always, any questions, comments, or concerns, feel free to leave them in the box below! Let me know if you have any requests or suggestions. Enjoy, and I'll hopefully get this fic updated again sometime this coming week!

Star City wasn’t a terrible city to visit. It had a lot going for it actually, with its sprawling cityscape and high end businesses, and the vigilantes keeping it safe. At first glance, there didn’t seem to be any major dangers at all beyond the usual petty crime. There were no real reasons to avoid Star City.

Unless you were a top notch criminal who hated everything about cities like that. Not much litter, not much smog, not much street crime that Mick could see… _boring._

Central City was much the same in many ways, but at least he knew every in and out of the criminal underground there. Knew where to go for some fun, knew the dark back alleys best suited for illegal activity, knew where to go to escape the infuriating normalcy of day to day life in the world of those who didn’t live for danger and recklessness and rebellion and _fun_.

All the better that he wasn’t here for fun. He was on a mission. One he wanted to be on; none of these pointless runs through time to fix the past or the future. What did he care about the past or the future when neither had ever been a source of joy for him? Only one thing in his past had ever mattered, and clearly that thing didn’t matter to the rest of the crew.

So he would make this mission his own. He worked better that way anyhow.

The darkness of night had fallen when Mick landed the jumpship, tucked safely away atop a building’s roof where no one would find it. He had considered landing behind a farm on the outskirts of town, but that would mean a long walk through the dark to get to where he needed to be, and as much as he enjoyed prowling streets at night, it wasn’t something he had time for this time around.

So he landed the jumpship on top of a building near where the mayor’s office was located, and proceeded to jump down onto a fire escape, hands gripping the wet metal until his legs had become used to the new change in foundation.

The rain had stopped falling before he arrived, but not long enough to keep the fire escapes from being slippery. Mick didn’t like the rain much. Or snow. Or anything that made it harder to set things on fire.

Tonight, though, fire wasn’t on his mind and therefore his only concern was making sure he didn’t slip and break his neck while descending the fire escape. The only sounds that reached his ears were the faint rumbling of car engines and the occasional shout from nighttime wanderers - muggers or clubbers or graveyard workers on their way to their jobs.

Once boots were planted on solid concrete once more, Mick shoved his hands into his pockets, pressing them against his ribs in an attempt to warm them quicker, mind drifting until he was only concentrating on the rise and fall of his own breathing.

He avoided streetlights on his journey through the heart of the city, keeping to the shadows, unwilling to interact with any of the people wandering the roads this late. He welcomed the possibility of a fight, but that could wait. Time travel or no, some small part of him whispered that he had no time to lose. He couldn’t waste a single minute. He wasn’t sure why - he only knew he couldn’t.

It didn’t take long to reach the building the mayor worked in - or maybe it did. Mick had not bothered to check the time since arriving in Star City, and he continued to ignore it even as he strode up the stone steps and through the double doors of the city hall.

“Queen.” Mick marched up to the desk and stated the one word to the receptionist there.

She stared at him with no small amount of disapproval. “We close in five minutes. You can’t--”

“Queen,” Mick repeated, straightening up to his full height and fixing her with a stony gaze. “Where is he?”

The receptionist’s hand moved toward the phone, and Mick turned away, making his way toward the elevator - making a brief detour to yank the cord of the phone out of the wall, ignoring the receptionist’s incredulous shouts ringing out behind him, both telling him he couldn’t see the mayor right now and calling for security.

It only took following the signs and the maps on the wall to find the mayor’s office, which he burst into with little to no care for the sounds of rapidly approaching security guards. Saying nothing nor looking to see if Oliver was actually present, Mick moved toward a bookshelf, shoving it slowly against the door to prevent the entrance of anyone who could interrupt them.

“Robin Hood.” Mick turned, greeting the other man with the most fitting moniker he could muster.

“You’re a bit far from Central City.” To his credit, Oliver’s composure remained impeccably calm and collected. Mick couldn’t be surprisd; the other man, from what little he knew of him, rarely seemed to show emotions. At least, not around strangers.

“Been real far from Central for a long time now.” Mick didn’t bother explaining further. “Gotta ask you for a favour.”

“And I’d agree to that… why?” Oliver’s entire body was that of a man ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Mick honestly found it surprising the other hadn’t already put an arrow through his head.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll cause more trouble than it’s worth.” Mick shifted slightly, hand resting comfortably close to the heat gun holstered at his side. “All I want is some information, then I’ll be outta here. Got more important things to do than mess up your city.”

Oliver rounded the corner of his desk, lips set in a grim line. “Really. And what’s that information you think I’m going to so willingly hand over to you?”

“What’s-his-face’s phone number or address or somethin’.” Mick turned slightly to make sure he didn’t allow the archer into his blind spot. “The demon guy. Constantine.”

Oliver’s expression turned from one of wary distrust to confusion. “Constantine. John Constantine? What do you want with him?”

“None of your business.” Mick had no desire to admit his reasons for being here. “He still here? I know you had him give Birdie her soul back.” At least, at some point he had. Star City, 2015. That had been all the information he was given. As far as exact day went, that was anyone’s guess.

For a moment, silence fell. For the timebeing, both men had fallen still, Oliver no longer inching nearer and Mick no longer edging back. “That was two months ago. He’s moved on to somewhere else; doesn’t really stick to one place for long. Why do you want to talk to him?”

Mick ignored the fact Oliver had just repeated the question. “Fine. What’s his number?”

“Again, I ask: Why do you think I’m going to so willingly hand this information over to you? I’ve heard about you from Team Flash. You aren’t exactly good news,” Oliver retorted. “He’s an old friend of mine and I’m not sure I want to send you in his direction.”

Exhaling slowly, Mick shrugged, head tilting slightly as his hand moved to rest against his heat gun, features flickering into a smirk, meant to intimidate with nonchalant self-confidence. “‘Cause if you don’t give it to me, I’ll be bad news in _your_ city, not just the Flash’s. You give me this guy’s number and I’ll leave you alone. Keep pitching a fit, and this whole place burns.”

“You’re extremely outnumbered to be that sure of yourself,” Oliver remarked.

“Maybe wonder why I’m that sure of myself when I am so outnumbered.” This was taking too long. Mick had never been a patient man and he certainly wasn’t now. “It’s one damn phone number. If I gotta kill you and hack your cell to get it, I will, but I think it’d be easier for both of us if you just give it to me.”

“Tell me why you want it and maybe I’ll give it to you instead of having you locked up.”

A low sound akin to a growl left Mick’s throat and he refused to answer for several silent moments until the quiet grew too heavy for him to bear. “Need him to get someone back for me. Someone not living.”

“That’s a dangerous game to play. Bringing Sara back from the dead was--” Oliver was moving again, toward the desk, and Mick tensed, ready to defend himself if need be.

“Yeah, yeah. She got all bloodthirsty. That’s the last thing I’m worried about right now.” Fingers closed around the heat gun.

Oliver withdrew a small rectangle of cardstock from the desk, rather than the weapon Mick had assumed he was reaching for. He approached, stopping just outside of the pyro’s reach, holding the card out. “He has a business card, and when he left, he was on his way to Seattle. That’s all I’m giving you. I still have half a mind to arrest you. The only reason I’m not is because of Sara. She seems to think you’ve changed, from what she said last time we spoke. She’ll only come get you out if I do anything, I know her enough to say that much.”

It seemed like Sara was helping Mick out again, without knowing it. First in telling him how she got her soul back, and now in helping keep him out of prison. “Gonna have to thank her later then.” He glanced at the card for only a moment before slipping it into his pocket, hand moving away from his gun. “Great.” He cast a glance toward the door. “Might have to climb out your window, Robin Hood.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Move the bookshelf, I’ll call security off.” A warning stare. “This time. You’re not welcome here, Heat Wave. Regardless of what Lance thinks of you.”

Mick decided not to respond to that, opting out of speaking at all as he shoved the bookshelf across the floor with a low grunt and the scrape of wood against the wall. Oliver visibly gritted his teeth as he opened the door, holding a hand up to stave off the group of men who had been trying to break down the door. “Let him go.”

Confused mumbling rippled through the crowd, and Mick ignored it all, pushing past two security guards and making his way down the staircase, moving at a decidedly unhurried pace; he had places he needed to be, yes, but sometimes, making sure someone from the opposing side of the moral spectrum knew you weren’t nervous took priority.

And then he was treading down the steps of the city hall into the dark of the night, business card clutched in the fingers of one hand and cell phone in the other.

\- * -

“We have arrived.”

Gideon’s voice rang out in the same electronically sepulchral tone as always, sounding across the entirety of the Waverider to signal the crew that they had reached their destination - granted, they were supposed to be in their seats upon landing, but since when did the Legends ever follow any sort of protocol?

“Everyone on bridge. Where you _should_ have been twenty minutes ago.” 

Of course, that didn’t stop Captain Sara Lance from trying to get them to follow the rules - sometimes - anyway.

One by one, the Legends filed onto the bridge. Sara waited until all were present - _except for Mick_ , a small voice nagged at the back of her mind - before speaking. “Alright. Listen up. I need you all to focus - I’m talking to you, Nate.” Ignoring the offended expression on the scientist’s face, she continued. “Boudicca was - is - a force to be reckoned with, She’s a warrior and a queen, heralded as a Celtic folk hero. She’s probably confused, or angry, or both, and we don’t need to get ourselves killed while trying to send her back to where she needs to go. Got it?”

“Why does this warrant more caution than any other anachronism we’ve dealt with thus far?” Stein spoke from his vantage point near the back of the bridge, arms folded across his chest and head tilted to one side. 

“Because I’ve met people like her, and people like her in a state of confusion is never good.” A brief pause, a glance at the two scientists in the room. “And because the Celts aren’t exactly known for their _modest_ attire, and I do _not_ need a repeat of the fiasco with Helen of Troy.”

Raymond and Nate both reacted indignantly, to which Sara raised a finger. “Just stick to the plan. Alright?”

A beat of silence. “Alright.” The two men spoke more or less in unison, Ray raking a hand sheepishly through his hair and Nate’s lips set in a disgruntled frown.

The team set out, exiting the ship and entering Portland, Oregon; or, rather, a farm just outside of Portland, the only place they could land the Waverider without risk of someone accidentally running into it - invisible did not mean incorporeal, after all. 

A short ride on a farmer’s truck later - painting themselves as stranded travelers attempting to get to a concert in Portland from California - and the Legends had arrived at their actual destination. Bright colours, constant music, and a musky scent familiar to several on the crew although they would never admit it out loud. 

“How are we going to find her? Did Gideon have an exact location?” Jax frowned, stepping up onto the sidewalk and scanning the area 

“No. Well, she did, but that was a while ago. Boudicca has probably moved on,” Sara replied. A sound caught her attention, and she turned in a circle, looking down the road behind them. “Or maybe not… c’mon.”

Running along the sidewalk and dodging between Bohemian-styled men and women, Sara didn’t stop until she had rounded the corner, gaze falling upon a city plaza… and a group of six men and women clad in little to nothing, emblazoned with brightly painted symbols on their skin, and shouting in a language that, without the special language devices Gideon could offer, made no coherent sense to any of them.

“That wasn’t hard,” Ray remarked dryly, coming to a stop beside Sara. She made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, gauging the crowd gathering around the clearly defensive Celtic warriors - most of whom were rightfully rallied around a tall, russet-haired woman that had obviously taken charge.

Sara reached into her pocket and took the ingestible translator, placing it on her tongue and swallowing. After a few moments, the meaning of the shouts from the Celts had become clear - clamouring threats and demands to be left alone, or the onlookers would pay the price; questions as to where they were, what magic had brought them here… 

Hurrying forward, Sara pushed through the crowd until she was close enough to the Celts to be heard. “We can help you go home, but you need to calm down and come with us.” She held out a hand, placatingly, trying to keep from antagonising them further. 

Boudicca stared through narrowed eyes at Sara, suspicion plain in the lines of her forehead and tight set of her jaw. “Who are you? Do you know who brought us here?”

“Sort of.” Yeah, she wasn’t about to admit that it had been them. “You’re safe, but the only way you can get home is if you come with me and my… clan. We can send you home, but you have to remain calm.”

A beat of tense silence, broken only by the confused murmurings of the Portland natives and the angry growls of the warriors. Finally, Boudicca sharply motioned with her hand, rendering the men and women behind her totally silent within moments. She looked back at Sara, nodding once. “Take us home. Be warned, if you are attempting some form of trickery, I will cut your head from your body.”

An involuntary wince. “Understood.” Sara nodded her head at the Legends, silently asking them to start back toward the Waverider. To the crowd gathering, she offered an easygoing smile. “Reenactors. Had a little too much to drink, that’s all.”

Easily accepting this as truth, the crowd began to disperse, talking amongst themselves and discussing what shows or games or festivals the Celts could be reenactors at. Sara watched them go, then moved toward where she had left her team. One glance over her shoulder showed that Boudicca and her warriors were following, albeit cautiously.

Maybe for once this mission would go as planned and not hit five hundred road blocks. She could only hope.

\- * -

Mick sat behind the wheel of a car, which he did not own in the slightest, nor had he rented, but had instead hotwired and stolen from a movie theatre parking lot. It wasn’t fancy; extremely boring, actually, a silvery colour and some older bland model of car that had no character to it. But it worked and that was all that mattered.

He supposed he could have simply stayed in the jumpship, but there were a multitude of problems with that - the primary one being that despite his best efforts, he didn’t trust that there wasn’t a way for the Legends to track him. And he didn’t want to be found.

This was something he both wanted to do on his own, and had to do on his own, and if he even attempted to explain it to the others, they would be against it. He didn’t have time to argue with them, and so, wanted to avoid it entirely. 

So he had gone to get a car, leaving the jumpship settled atop the building near the city hall of Star City, 2015. If he needed to get back to it, he could get back to it. For now, though, he needed a place to spend the night. A place that wasn’t some hard metallic pilot’s chair in a jumpship.

The best bet would be to squat in someone else’s apartment for the night, but figuring out which places were empty right now wasn’t exactly his priority, so a semi-long drive to some shady out-of-the-way motel it was.

Disregarding rules entirely - hey, at least he had fastened his seatbelt; and only because a familiar voice echoed in his head telling him to - he turned on his phone in one hand and redialed the number he had already called twice now, to no avail. 

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

\--and an automated message telling him that he could not reach the number dialed, and to leave a message after the tone.

“Pick up the damn phone, Englishman. This is urgent.”

He didn’t try calling again until he had checked into a seedy motel with no intention of paying with an actual card, instead using one he had stolen some time ago. And then he made his way to his motel room, walking inside and taking in the beige walls, the tan carpet, the suspicious-looking bedsheets, the faint traces of mold along the bathroom wall, the curtains barely concealing neon lights shining through the window declaring VACANCIES in crimson red… 

Mick collapsed onto the bed with little to no concern for the faint stains marring the once-white-now-eggshell-coloured sheets, and once again turned on his phone, hitting the redial button.

It rang, rang, rang… and then the automated message.

“Answer the fucking phone.”

No response.

He called again. And again. And again. Hours passed, until 1am arrived, and his call logs stated that he had called this number no less than fifty-three times. And left just as many messages. 

“Pick. Up. The. Goddamn. Phone.” Words were spoken from between gritted teeth, his fists clenched, jaw set. “Listen, this is is a fuckin’ emergency. I need your help. And if you don’t answer the phone, I’m gonna go find you myself.”

Hung up. Turned the phone on. Redialed once again. It rang out, leading to the same automated message, only this time, the words were different.

_The voice mailbox of the number you have tried to reach is full and cannot accept any more messages. Please try calling again later._

A low string of curses left Mick’s lips as he slammed the phone down against the mattress and lay down hard with a muffled thump against the bedsheets. So that was it then.

Come morning, he would be driving to Seattle to see if this elusive bastard was still there.

And if he wasn’t, then Mick would keep searching until he found him.


End file.
